'The intellectual rights of all texts, images, videos presented in this blog belong with their creators and/or publishers. They are presented here only for personal use and not for any monetary gain whatsoever.'
19th of November The boys grow; they put their hands in their pockets. They hide a lead, dead little soldier in their pockets. Their mother wears glasses each time she mends their socks. All mothers look gray each Saturday night and more so on Sundays when it rains; because of this I perhaps got sick. I sit on my hay mattress. Vasilis comes in and lights the lamp. He’s silent. He waits. The sound of uncle-Fotis’ worry beads is heard as if all the lights are turned on one by one in the faraway houses or ships.
II Troglodytes of the Middle Ages rise over the headmaster’s imposing stature with the golden, exterior richness while the ancient druid’s ethereal figure alarms all innocent peasants who intoxicate themselves in bucolic air. Stature tormenting the pious seagulls as trails of blood ascend. Abundant contempt for diaphaneity, kisses and the light touch of fingers, for dreams that reach the heavens like unfolding crystal rose petals. Wounds of the flesh deepen and the sharpest stigmata of the clouds whip the skin of the earth onto which psalms and hymns chain the stanzas into elegies: how would the raindrops listen to their music or the chamomiles would see their yellow tear and how the yet to be born would dance to the tunes of their forefathers?
Reminder The room was in the suburbs, with a few pieces of furniture like a Gospel quotation, so everything finished quickly and Joanna cried and ran back to the station; on the other hand, it was a secret that I could forget as I tried to mention it; then I opened the violin case, and only sometimes when I grieve, I put on my tie in such a way that they finally understand. I’ve been hanging for a long time.
VI Nights with their tightly shut doors, in the safety of a dirty bed in a dream that erases the footsteps that trample darkness, tired dream, silent, only with sperm, with saliva spasmodically shutting the cracks of screams momentarily, and again in the lustful warmth of nakedness. Days with the totally hidden rust of tears in the dark brand new suits, days trapped in the personally won bread and then, after the end of the celebration, the harbor master supervises the carrying of its bones; and from good morning to good morning, from one silence to another, the fear — smoking half a cigarette between two cadavers. Where they deny me they’ll deny me again, forgotten, ignored, a burdensome ancient acquaintance, a mask ravaged by horror and frost like change in front of the fear of change where they sent me away and spat on me where they smiled at me and then found the future smokestacks as an excuse, while all along, it was like Saturday evenings with their fiancé, and I was left alone with extended hand amid the deserted autumns with only the wind that applied salt deep in the wounds that kisses opened, there where we felt hungry together and now they don’t share their hunger with me where we ate together and now they don’t even give me a piece of bread or coal where we walked together and they now deny me each step and stone where we slept and now they deny me sleep and hope where we lived and now they deny me the door of their houses where we lived and now they deny me the certainty and patience there is where I shall go. Because something that doesn’t vanish exists in everyone something exists in everyone that life holds in its two hands tightly.
….filthy palaces artichokes of regret I knock at your door come open and show your endless beauty to the moons moons hang off your eyebrows and go down and a fiery broadsword behind the mountain the new Zeus. Squeeze our hearts: sweat will pour the holy sweat of the worker unjustly killed and the moon is the blade of the knife slavery, correctly, means bitterness come, all of you, cross yourselves (A cross never goes to waste) look, but look quickly: the moon goes down.
Mayanaam
vequinox
Manolis 